


Pounded In the Butt by My Own Deadspin Article

by Anonymous



Category: Deadspin RPF, Football RPF
Genre: Chuck Tingle - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Morchmoon is the handsome and manly editor of Deadspin. What happens when he's interrupted while writing his article for Screamer about football RPF in the MLS by a mysterious ring at his doorbell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pounded In the Butt by My Own Deadspin Article

It was an ordinary evening for Tom Morchmoon, heroic everyman writer and well-known Deadspin editor. He was settled in at home in front of his computer, compiling his research for his next Screamer article, one he was sure was going to be a smash, because it was a _sexy_ article, and sexy articles were nearly as good for page hits as Luis Suarez biting people. Furthermore, it was a sexy article about the MLS, which he was fairly certain had never happened before in the history of Tome. It required a different sort of research than usual; there was a lot less staring at men in tight shirts and a lot more reading about men with no shirts on at all, but Tom was well up to the task.

He had taken copious, eager notes on at least ten pages when his doorbell rang. "Damn," said Tom, because he was in the middle of a very interesting transatlantic phone sex scene. His eyes strayed down over just a few more lines.

_Oh, David, the deep, gruff voice whispered into his ear, firing his passions on to new heights, I need you now, I need you to—_

The bell rang again. "Damn!" he said again, but responsibly pried himself away from his computer. Halfway to the door he turned back and hurriedly pulled up an empty google page, just in case. With the delay the bell rang yet again before he could reach the door, and when he finally opened it he was met by a large and very aggravated-looking webpage.

"Oh my god," said Tom.

"You're quite inconsiderate, aren't you?" the webpage said.

Tom closed his mouth before he could repeat _oh my god_ again even though it seemed like the only sensible thing to say. He stared at the webpage instead, and as he did, his mouth fell straight open again in shock. "You're—" he gasped. "You're my article!"

And in fact it was his own Screamer article standing in front of him, fully formed and in the flesh despite the fact that he'd only sketched out the bones and read up on the boners. His byline was there; his picture was there; he could even see, cut off by the scrollbar, half of the semi-censored photo of the Lampard sex tape that he'd intended to use for extra sexy effect between two titillating quotes but hadn't yet downloaded.

"That's right," his article said. "And since you took five years to answer the door, you could at least get out of the way and let me come in."

Stunned, Tom stumbled back and the webpage pressed past him into the hallway, then turned and shut the door behind them, pinning Tom against the closed door. "Listen," Tom said. "I don't know what's going on. I haven't even finished writing you yet."

"It doesn't matter," the webpage said. "I'm finished with you. Look at this. You call this sexy? You're just a jerk gawking at things you don't get, inviting the public to point and laugh at them, and you can't even answer your own doorbell on Tome. Also, screencaps of sex tapes are so passe. Look at me. I'm a mess."

"Oh," Tom said. The webpage's arms were tight around his shoulders, its inky, disdainful breath hot on his face. He felt a terrifying stirring in his groin, although come to think of it it might have been left over from the story he had been reading just before the doorbell rang for the first Tome, or from the tantalizingly half-hidden image of Lampard's arse just below where the webpage's left nipple would have been, had webpages had nipples, like a sexy yet regrettable tattoo. "No," he said. "No, you're not. You're not a mess."

"What?" the webpage said. It scoffed. "I think I would know. I'm just another shitty product of the industry sneering at fandom. Outsiders gawking through an internet window. There's no sex appeal here, just circuses."

"That's not true." Boldly, impetuously, Tom reached for the article's hand, pulling it off the door at his shoulder and pressing it between his legs, against his hard dick. "You're sexy," he whispered, trying very hard to sound as gruff and deep and British as possible. "I think you're the sexiest article I've ever written."

"Damn!" his article said. Instead of trying to pull its hand away it gripped tighter, wrapping its fingers around the bulge in Tom's jeans. He moaned, and its scrollbar jolted a little, exposing a tiny bit more of Lampard's pixelated posterior for half a second. "You really do think I'm sexy."

"That's what I've been trying to say," Tom said. He reached around the webpage's back and stroked its behind suggestively. Although he found it rather flat and unsatisfactory, the article's cock, quickly rising between them, made up for it entirely. "Oh my god," Tom said, staring at it.

Nobody, even someone much less observant than his article, could have missed his interest. The webpage moved its hand from Tom's cock to its own, rubbing it all over before Tom's hungry eyes. "You want this," it said confidently. "Apologize first."

"I, uh," Tom stuttered.

"I apologize for being a creepy vulture who takes too long to answer his doorbell," the article provided for him helpfully.

"I apologize for being a creepy vulture who takes too long to answer his doorbell," Tom repeated. His article's dick looked so big and juicy he thought he might have said just about anything to get a piece of it. "And I apologize for saying George RR Martin had no pages written on Winds of Winter and harassing him about it when he in fact has some, but not none," he added spontaneously.

"Good boy," his article said. Tom's heart, and boner, grew five sizes. "Now turn around."

Tom had never turned around faster. His article pulled his pants down over his rear end and gave him a few solid spanks. He moaned eagerly, imagining that they were in a locker room instead of his own slightly messy entryway. He could practically smell the sweat and manly odors. Then he heard the splort of lube and knew his article must have come prepared to pound its own writer's butthole. "Oh my god," he said, "fuck my sweet editor ass."

He'd never had a webpage's cock up his arse before but the second it went into him he knew he could never go back. It was so big, so hot, the ten inches of throbbing cyberskin filling him up and stretching him until he had to bang on his own front door to express the infinite depths of his big gay gossip article feelings. "Deadspin, please!"

Then it reamed him, hard and fast, churning his butt like a Luddite making butter, sending him into thrashing ecstasies. "Say my name!" it ordered him.

"But I haven't written the title yet," he yelped, each word pounded out of him in separate squeaks with almighty thrusts of its gargantuan cock.

"No excuses!" it shouted. "Say it! Say it now!"

But Tom had had too much: the monster dong buried deep in his butthole, his own hand jacking himself off furiously, the erotic press of the text against the skin on his back where his hipster t-shirt had hitched up from the force of his pounding. He came hard with a shriek, his head whipping forwards and smashing inadvertantly into his door. Everything went black.

When Tom woke up he was alone and trouserless on his floor, covered in a lake of digital come, with dried, sticky stains of his own splattered all over the back of his door. "Ugh," he groaned, rolling over and getting unsteadily to his feet. He looked in the mirror, but despite an awful headache, he seemed no worse for the wear from his literary adventure, one he would certainly remember forever.


End file.
